


manners out the door

by endquestionmark



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: Gabriel isn’t a bad man, and he knows it, but he sinks his thumbs into the spans of muscle just above McCree’s hipbones and thinks that he could be. If he enjoys this so much — knowing that they shouldn’t be doing any of it, for God’s sake, he’s McCree’s superior officer and it’s not like the kid trusts anyone else as much as him, still a rawboned stray at heart with the reflexive wariness to match — then maybe Gabriel is further gone than he knows already.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Your combination summary and warning: Thorough (and thoroughly unprofessional) Blackwatch-era fraternization, ft. canon-compliant age difference. Thanks and no thanks to [Mari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung), [Leigha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard), and [Hyemi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vrooom/pseuds/vrooom) for their vicious enabling.

Gabriel is a good commander. He knows it; the United Nations knows it; Jack knows it, but then Jack always has. He built Overwatch from shrapnel and scraps, and handed it over to bureaucrats and publicists just in time to take on another impossible assignment, get his hands dirty all over again so that people who will never know his name can sleep a little easier at night. Light might be Overwatch’s hallmark — its golden boy commander; its globally-sanctioned mission; hell, even its focus group-tested logo — but Gabriel doesn’t have that luxury. Blackwatch can’t leave any sort of trail, paperwork or bodies, and it can never go on the record. If Gabriel dies in the line of duty, his obituary will be written as if he had retired years earlier, if it gets written at all.

If McCree dies in the line of duty, he certainly won’t get one. A year after his recruitment, McCree is still far too young for Overwatch to acknowledge as an operative. Even in the Blackwatch barracks, the kid is an outlier, set apart by his own distrust of the other recruits and his history of working on the wrong side of their particular thin line in the sand. Gunrunners don’t make many friends in Overwatch, particularly gunrunners with ties to the wrong side of history, and three years out from the worst of the skirmishes nobody has any doubts about which side that is.

So McCree doesn’t have many friends; so Gabriel was the first person to offer him a choice like an adult, without expecting him to follow or protecting him from the consequences. Strays are like that, loyal to the first person to show them any sort of care, and Gabriel knows that he’s a good commander. If he was a better man, though, he would have shown McCree the door the first time he turned up at Gabriel's quarters at midnight.

Gabriel isn’t a bad man. He just isn’t a saint, either, and maybe Gabriel is an outlier in his own way, too. Maybe it’s hard to watch his recruits grow closer as his colleagues become more distant; maybe he just isn’t as good a person as he’d like to think. Either way, it comes down to the same thing: McCree had come to him first, driven by desperation or loneliness or arrogance, too needy to take no for an answer, and Gabriel had barely tried to tell him anyway.

In his defense, McCree hadn’t made it particularly easy — more or less the only aspect of the situation Gabriel can say that about, because since then McCree has found him in the showers, the gym — the barracks once, when all the other recruits had been on a training exercise, in his narrow bunk with its messy sheets, barely enough room for both of them. Gabriel had felt like a rookie all over again, messing around and trying his best to be quiet, until McCree had gasped _sir_ against his throat. Barely a syllable, and it had floored Gabriel, made all of it seem even filthier.

For the most part, Gabriel can pretend that it isn’t actually that bad an idea, but — in his office, with the blinds down and the door locked — there’s no way he can mistake it for anything else.

On the other hand, it isn't particularly easy for Gabriel to actually think when he’s backed against the closed door, all of McCree’s effort focused on keeping him there, with the kid pressed flat against him, hips hitching against Gabriel’s thigh. _At least he doesn’t bother with excuses,_ Gabriel thinks, a little hysterical. "Slow down," he growls, and manhandles McCree over to the desk so he can have just a second to try to get his thoughts together.

He pins McCree face-down, arm twisted behind his back, because it’s the only way that McCree will hold still. As it turns out, that doesn’t work so well when he’s got all his weight on McCree, right up behind him. McCree just keeps moving, shoves back like he wants it so badly he can’t just wait a minute.

When Gabriel lets him go, McCree is all over him in less than a second, hands tangled in Gabriel’s vest and legs wrapped around Gabriel’s waist as he tries to fucking climb him.

 _Jesus,_ Gabriel thinks, because there’s eager and then there’s whatever McCree is. Touch-starved, maybe, if he wasn’t so dead set on getting his hands on every inch of Gabriel that he can; greedy, absolutely, because there’s no way that McCree will stop until Gabriel gives him what he wants.

“Brat,” Gabriel mutters, and McCree grins.

“Don’t see you complaining,” he says, settling himself on the edge of the desk.

Gabriel goes for his belt in retaliation. “I’m not.” He goes for McCree’s fly, and then forces himself to slow down. Just because McCree is impatient doesn’t mean that Gabriel has to encourage his bad habits. Instead, he rucks McCree’s shirt up to flatten his hand over the kid’s diaphragm and feel the way that his breath catches, smooths his hand up to wrap his fingers in the chain of McCree’s dog tags.

When he pulls, McCree doesn’t lean forward, and that tells Gabriel something too. For all that he might be throwing himself at Gabriel, McCree wants him to work for it.

It also tells him that he really wants to know what McCree sounds like when Gabriel has that chain wrapped around his knuckles and pulled tight around McCree's throat — bent over his desk, maybe, for leverage; up against the wall, the floor, wherever. Anywhere. Judging by the way that McCree leans back and lets the metal dig into his skin, he wouldn’t be averse either.

Gabriel tells himself firmly that it’s a thought for another time, when he can trust himself to be careful, if that ever happens; so far, no luck. Right now, he just wants McCree to be wearing a lot less than he is. “Hold this up,” he says, fingers splayed against McCree’s breastbone, shirt rucked up enough that he can see the bruises from their last sparring session mottled over McCree’s ribs.

McCree follows his gaze. "Yeah?” he says, and somehow manages to make even that sound filthy.

“Shut up,” Gabriel says, and runs his hands down McCree’s sides, digs his fingertips into the marks. McCree shivers and sighs. Gabriel tightens his grip to see if McCree will make himself small, pull away from the pressure, but he doesn’t; he just holds still and lets Gabriel press his bruises deeper.

He doesn’t say anything even when Gabriel goes to his knees, tugs McCree’s trousers down and sucks a mark into the tender skin at the inside of his thigh before taking his cock in hand and lapping at its head, wet and sloppy. He doesn’t intend to tease, although it wouldn’t precisely be difficult, given McCree’s hair-trigger and his disinclination towards restraint. Gabriel just wants to take a little of the edge off, so that McCree will go quiet and lazy and lush and he can take his own time.

Fortunately, that’s easy enough: McCree likes to get his hands into Gabriel’s hair, tangle his fingers in Gabriel’s curls and fuck his mouth — any excuse to undermine the chain of command. McCree isn’t rough enough to do any real damage, so Gabriel indulges him.

McCree likes him rough-voiced anyway. Gabriel isn’t averse to giving him what he wants on that front, especially when it means that he gets to watch as McCree comes apart, loses his rhythm and gets desperate. One day the kid will learn to use that feral grace of his, all long muscle and awkward angles, and then he’ll be even more unstoppable.

At least for the meantime, though, he’s far too easy to lead. Gabriel gives him a little of what he wants and McCree takes the rest without thinking, leaps without looking, far too eager to fall.

Gabriel slips two fingers into his own mouth alongside McCree’s cock and gets them wet, yanks McCree’s hips forward so that Gabriel can start working him open, and that does it. McCree gets loud when Gabriel fingers him, always does, as if he can’t help himself; he sounds strung-out, caught between wanting more and being overwhelmed, and his rhythm stutters. “Fuck,” he bites out, and pulls Gabriel’s hair so hard that his eyes sting, but Gabriel doesn’t stop. He just works his fingers deeper and makes sure that McCree really feels it.

When McCree comes, he doesn’t stop then, either. His mouth is a mess, and McCree runs the pad of his thumb over Gabriel’s cheek, picks up the wetness there and smears it across Gabriel’s lower lip.

Gabriel licks it off, and McCree shivers. His hips are still working, more a matter of reflex than conscious effort, hitching back as he fucks himself open on Gabriel’s fingers.

Gabriel catches the tip of McCree’s thumb between his teeth, and worries it; McCree grins. “There’s more of that, if you want.” When Gabriel curls his fingers, McCree’s eyes fall closed. “Oh,” he says —  _oh,_ and that’s ridiculous, as if he’s surprised — but the look on his face, the way that his throat works, all of it slips between Gabriel’s ribs and catches him equally off guard.

All right, enough, Gabriel thinks. He can only take so much. “What was that?” he says, trailing his fingers along the inside of McCree’s thigh, getting unsteadily to his feet.

“More,” McCree says, and kicks out his legs. _Brat,_ Gabriel thinks, and unlaces McCree’s boots, pulls his tangled trousers off so that he can push McCree’s legs apart and settle with his hips pressed flush, skin to cloth. He tugs McCree’s shirt off and sets his hands on McCree’s shoulders, pushes him back to lean on his elbows, ducks his head to scrape his teeth over the line of McCree’s throat.

McCree hums at that, content, and Gabriel can’t resist; he grins up at McCree, all teeth, and then bites down, holds the peak of McCree’s nipple between his teeth until McCree stops gasping and begins to shiver, out of breath and fighting to keep still. Gabriel lets him go then, flicks his tongue to watch McCree jerk in surprise, and leans forward. “What was that?” he says.

“I said,” McCree says, and gets his heel up on the desk, grabs Gabriel by the shoulders and flips them so that he’s settled — all skin and muscle and marks, _God,_ Gabriel thinks — over Gabriel’s hips.“More.” He gets Gabriel’s belt undone and makes a show of licking his palm, pulls Gabriel’s trousers down just enough to get his hand inside and jerks Gabriel off slow and deliberate and filthy. He gets Gabriel wet with his own slick, until the sound of his hand makes even Gabriel flush hot, and then sucks his fingers clean.

“Fuck,” Gabriel says, because McCree is just — filthy, really, teeth set in his lower lip even as he grins; unstoppable as he crawls into Gabriel’s lap and gets himself settled, a tortuous inch at a time. All long limbs and rangy muscle, barely anything to hold onto without leaving marks, without digging his fingertips into muscle and knowing that McCree will have dusky bruises pressed into his hips, a match for those over his ribs, to show for it tomorrow.

Gabriel isn’t a bad man, and he knows it, but he sinks his thumbs into the spans of muscle just above McCree’s hipbones and thinks that he could be. If he enjoys this so much — knowing that they shouldn’t be doing any of it, for God’s sake, he’s McCree’s superior officer and it’s not like the kid trusts anyone else as much as him, still a rawboned stray at heart with the reflexive wariness to match — then maybe Gabriel is already further gone than he knows.

McCree shouldn’t be this good at that age, either; Gabriel can’t stop thinking about it. Measured in experience, he might not be so much younger than Gabriel, but even so — Gabriel certainly shouldn’t find it as searingly hot as he does. He has more than a decade on McCree, years of knowing better and being quicker on the draw and, supposedly, wiser, and here he is anyway. Hands spanning McCree’s hips, the kid’s fingernails digging half-moon welts into his chest even through the fabric of his shirt, and hips pressed flush as McCree shifts his weight, fidgets even though Gabriel is as deep in him as he can get.

God, Gabriel thinks, _where did I go wrong, where did I go right._ He doesn’t deserve this, any of it, but then neither does McCree.

“You going to do anything, or are you just planning to sit there?” he says.

McCree shifts again, deliberate this time, and that’s even worse — that he knows what he’s doing, that he wants to get a reaction out of Gabriel, that he manages to be so infuriating even now. That he’s so present, and so himself, even worked open and wet and hard again, so soon that it must hurt, cock flushed dark where Gabriel can feel the dab of wetness on his stomach when McCree shifts forward; that’s the worst of it. Not for a single second can Gabriel convince himself that he’s fucking someone else, someone who doesn’t deserve better, someone whose survival he isn’t responsible for on a daily basis.

McCree doesn’t know better, but one day he will.

One day he might even thank Gabriel for it. The thought is quiet, has the ring of a seductive lie rather than any sort of truth, but Gabriel can’t quite shake it. Maybe he really is doing McCree a favor by getting to him first, teaching him that nobody worth trusting will ever give him what he wants so easily, and nobody who does is worth trusting.

 _Like hell,_ Gabriel thinks, and grins right back. “Could ask you the same thing,” he says, and smacks McCree on the hip, fingers spread, pulls the blow at the last minute. The last thing he wants to do is give the kid ideas, if that’s even possible, all things considered. One day isn’t now, anyway, and has nothing to do with just how good it feels to give in after waiting so long and fighting so hard; Gabriel always feels better about capitulating when he knows that he’s done all he can — and if he hasn’t, then that hardly matters now. McCree has made his choices, and that’s clearly good enough for him. Maybe Gabriel just doesn’t want to fight him on it badly enough to try. “What’s the matter? More than you can handle?”

McCree shrugs, overdramatic as always. “You’re all right, I guess,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Nothing to write home about.”

“Watch it,” Gabriel says, and taps his fingers along McCree’s thigh. “I’m your superior officer, remember?”

He says it as a sort of reflex, long-ingrained habit from weeks of earning his subordinates’ trust, weeks of reinforcing the hierarchy necessary for battlefield decisions and barracks order, and it brings him up short. It doesn’t seem to discourage McCree, though, who catches him by the wrist, sets Gabriel’s hand back on his hip and smoothes Gabriel’s fingers over the long pull of muscle in his flank.

“So that’s an order, is it,” McCree says, and lets Gabriel twist on the hook for a moment before he smirks. “Teasing,” he says, and sets his hands flat on Gabriel’s chest, leaning his weight forward. “If you really want to make my day, though—“ He moves, fractionally, and exhales halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “—Jesus. You can do that again.”

“Do what.” Gabriel scrapes his nails along McCree’s thigh, up to the curve of his ass, and fits his palm to it. “This?” He traces circles with his fingertips over the thin skin there, adds just a hint of fingernail to sweeten it. “This.” Gabriel digs his fingers in, enough that it has to be hurting McCree, but the grin never leaves his face. “Or this,” he says, and lands a solid blow, loud enough that it sounds just as dirty as it feels.

“Fuck,” McCree says. “That, that — keep doing that — God,” and it sounds as if he can’t help himself, as if this more than anything else is driving him out of his mind, making him say whatever comes to mind. “You’ve got great hands, Jesus, you don’t know how much I’ve thought about them.”

Gabriel thinks he might have some idea. “Guess you’re just going to be lazy and leave me to do all the work,” he says, and that’s a nice thought: pinning McCree with his weight, seeing how loud he really gets when Gabriel won’t give him a second to catch his breath, seeing if he can make McCree come untouched the first time and then just keep going.

McCree almost pouts. “More,” he says again, almost imperious, and God help him but Gabriel wants to; Gabriel wants to give him whatever he asks for, whatever McCree wants. Even if it ruins him, even if it ruins both of them, it feels good to say yes, and seems a harder habit to break by the minute.

“All right,” Gabriel says, and lands another blow.

The noise that McCree makes this time is bitten-back, caught between his teeth, before he blinks and grins as brightly as ever. “Gee up,” he says — breathy and impudent as ever, but with a little of the brass starting to wear off — and _fuck,_ Gabriel thinks, but he finally moves, makes good on all his promises and threats, and that’s worth any amount of trouble.

McCree really is a natural, whatever it is: perhaps some instinct for reading other people, a survival skill, or simply an excess of imagination and some degree of talent, or — and Gabriel has to fight down ugliness at the thought, the twist of a snarl, fury clawing at his chest — maybe he has practice. Either way, he gives Gabriel everything that he wants, and takes whatever Gabriel is willing to give; rides him slow enough that Gabriel digs his fingers in harder, and then speeds up, keeps Gabriel guessing.

More likely than not, both of them deserve this. Gabriel can’t think of anything he’s done — good or bad — to deserve how badly he wants McCree, though. He doesn’t think he deserves the way that it hits him sometimes, when the light streams in over the grounds and washes McCree’s skin with gold, the way that he laughs and the way that he smiles when he isn’t trying to get a reaction, crooked and genuine. He slides his palm up McCree’s side to his collarbone, intending to leave nail marks to match the welts rising on his own chest, and McCree catches him by the wrist, presses Gabriel’s palm over his heart.

Gabriel digs his fingertips in, drags the pad of his thumb over McCree’s nipple, and McCree arches, head falling back. “Yeah,” he says, “like that,” and laughs. “God.”

McCree is still laughing when Gabriel takes his cock in hand, although the sounds he makes are breathy and involuntary; he doesn’t lose his rhythm this time, just keeps going even when he can’t quite seem to remember how to breathe, even when his laughter begins to sound desperate rather than exultant, more a series of ragged sobs than anything else.

“Come on,” Gabriel says, and McCree falls forward, hands on Gabriel’s chest, head hanging. “Come _on_ —” and McCree makes a sound as if a word is caught in his throat, a halfway syllable, and comes. He makes a mess of Gabriel’s hand and his clothes, and doesn’t seem to care; instead, he begins to move again, shivering as if he can’t quite coordinate himself.

“Your turn,” McCree says, voice shaking, and Gabriel — should say no, should soothe McCree with a hand on his back, should push him away—

Gabriel nods. “Yeah,” he says, and sets his hands on McCree’s hips, lifts him. “Jesus, kid—” and McCree manages to laugh at that. “—yeah. Knew you liked that,” Gabriel says.

“Fuck you,” McCree says. “Are you going to make me feel it, or what?”

Gabriel knows that it’s a line, one of those things that real people don’t say; he knows that McCree is saying it to see what it’s like, to see if it works. Thing is, it does, on him at the very least, and he surges up, arm around McCree’s shoulders, twists his hips and pins him to the desk. “Say that again,” he says.

“Make me feel it,” McCree says, all insouciance, and Gabriel doesn’t need to hear it again; he has all the permission that he needs, and if it comes to begging forgiveness, he’ll do that later. For now, all he wants is to give McCree what he won’t have to ask for a third time — and the smile that McCree gives him is half-crooked, half-real; Gabriel has never been able to say no to that.

He presses a kiss to McCree’s shoulder, just below the slope of his collarbone, and fucks him hard and fast. Never mind McCree, Gabriel will be feeling it tomorrow, but in the meantime McCree clings to him and shivers; in the meantime, McCree presses his fingers into the name of Gabriel’s neck; in the meantime, he bites down on McCree’s shoulder when he comes.

McCree strokes his hair and hums into the side of Gabriel's neck, doesn’t push Gabriel away when he straightens up, just holds him for a moment and then gets up — moving a little carefully, the puffy red of new bruises already swelling on his hips, the insides of his thighs wet.

Gabriel wants to push McCree back over his desk and clean him up with his mouth, lick him until he’s shivering and then go again, see what he looks like so fucked out that he can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pain anymore. He isn’t a saint, though; McCree is his recruit, and what they’re doing is one thing, but what Gabriel wants is another.

He might not be all that good a man, at the end of the day, but if he can be a little better by denying himself, Gabriel won’t hesitate, no matter how badly he wants it. He gets himself squared away, turns so that McCree has a little room to dress, set himself in order, leave in his own time; Gabriel listens for the clink of his belt, the click of the lock.

Instead, when he turns around, McCree is standing right there, and he pulls Gabriel down for a kiss, which is new, for all that they’ve done already. Gabriel doesn’t pull away, too surprised, so the look of disappointment on McCree’s face comes as no surprise when he finally breaks away.

 _Hell,_ Gabriel thinks, because he shouldn’t — reach out and curl his hand around McCree’s jaw, pull him back, kiss him properly this time, slow and thorough and careful — but then, of course, he does. Then, of course, it’s too late.

McCree smiles at him, crooked and real, and — the worst of it is that, if Gabriel could be a better person, he might choose not to, if it meant giving up the way that McCree looks at him. If Gabriel could take this back, he wouldn’t, not if it meant losing that smile. If Gabriel was better — but he isn’t, and it’s too late, and he isn’t sure he would want it any other way.

If Gabriel was a better man, he would; of that much, he can be certain, but he doesn’t have the luxury of hypotheticals. He doesn’t have the benefit of hindsight. One day he will, but not now, not yet.

One day they’ll all live to regret this, one way or another. Gabriel doesn’t see any point in getting started early, and McCree is still standing there, still smiling.

Gabriel smiles back, and knows that he’s lost already.


End file.
